“s**t. s**t. s**t. Why do I do this to myself?” Michael groaned as he turned away from the morning sun and tried to hide from its bright rays. He moved his hand to his left temple to hold his aching head as if it would stop the pounding going on inside. “I f*****g hate Sundays,” he complained, throwing the covers off. He felt like he was still dreaming. It was the intense urge to piss that finally propelled him from his bed and into the bathroom, where he stood in front of the toilet with his d**k dangling over the bowl. His mother had come over and said something about dinner and Angel. “Fuck.” He let loose a steady stream. His bladder felt wounded when he was done but there was also relief. He was unsure how long he had been holding it. The shrink he had been forced to see after the inci
